


feel the power of your hand on me

by featherx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Church Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game(s), Semi-Public Sex, top seteth/bottom mbyleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: “…Byleth?”For a former mercenary and someone who lived through a war, the man is a ridiculously deep sleeper. Not for the first time, Seteth massages his temple, trying to will the oncoming headache away, and nudges Byleth’s arm. “Come on. Wake up. Your papers are all crumpled.”
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 177





	feel the power of your hand on me

**Author's Note:**

> my side of an art/fic trade! prompt: (m)setleth with top seteth who snapped after years of pining lol  
> i haven't played 3H in a while and i only really retained the CF endings, so i Think this takes place after AM since that's the only route where byleth becomes archbishop? but honestly it doesn't really matter that much this is PWP please don't pick at the details 😖
> 
> title from [NFWMB by hozier](https://open.spotify.com/track/2iQYqdalv245vrCEM4W9N9?si=mgJ-yoXgTDGg5K7TsoupVg) because of course

“…Byleth?”

For a former mercenary and someone who lived through a war, the man is a ridiculously deep sleeper. Not for the first time, Seteth massages his temple, trying to will the oncoming headache away, and nudges Byleth’s arm. “Come on. Wake up. Your papers are all crumpled.”

“Good,” Byleth grumbles, still obviously half-asleep—he leans in to Seteth’s touch, like a cat in the monastery demanding attention, and Seteth immediately drops his hand back down to his side. Byleth grumbles some more and lifts his head off the desk just to stare at the crumpled papers he had slept on, then drops his head back down. “I can’t afford a break?”

“How long have you been asleep?”

“Not long enough.”

Seteth raises an eyebrow. “Flayn told me you were in this exact position approximately four hours ago.”

“So why does it feel like four minutes?” Byleth huffs.

For the Archbishop of Fódlan, the man can be ridiculously childish… though Seteth would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it just the slightest bit endearing. Now is certainly not the time to be endeared, though—he smoothens the folds on the papers out as best as he can, frowning when he realizes most of them have been drooled upon, too. “Resting is good, but at least try to do so on a proper bed.”

Byleth holds his head up with his hands, as if he feels too heavy to sit upright for too long. “Take me to bed, then,” he says, without a hint of teasing in his tone.

Seteth slides the papers across the table towards him. “Very funny,” he says, not sounding the least bit amused. “Dinner will be ready soon. Please accomplish what you can before then.”

He leaves the office without looking back, but he thinks he hears a sigh of disappointment before he shuts the door behind him with a trembling hand.

Seteth can’t remember exactly when this had started—memories tend to blur when one lives as long as he does—but it may have been when they were at Rhodos Coast, facing off against members of the Western Church who believed it their duty to worship Cichol. It would have been flattering if they were not invading sacred land. Byleth offered to help, fought excellently, and fished for Flayn after the battle.

The ocean breeze had caught in his hair, the long strands at the base of his neck fluttering in the wind. He was smiling, just slightly, and it was such a rare sight that Seteth could not look away for several long moments. But surely, he told himself, it was only because he had never seen the man smile very much before—Seteth was just taken aback.

 _Fool,_ he tells himself. _Look at you now._

When Byleth disappeared for five years, Seteth tried not to think too much about it. It was fine, he told himself—the man had died trying to help Rhea, and though it was a shame, they could do nothing but mourn and move on. There was a war hanging heavy over their heads now, and the future of Fódlan was looking shaky at best. He poured his efforts into searching for Rhea and maintaining the monastery as best as he could, but with only Flayn and a handful of former knights of Seiros or monastery employees, it was tiring work.

And then Byleth returned from the dead, along with a miniature army of his former students, and Seteth could hardly refuse their help in the war efforts.

At first, he thought it might simply be loneliness or some sort—it had been many years since Seteth had felt anything even remotely related to romance, largely because he had stuck by Rhea and focused on his duties to the church. For a long while, Flayn was all he really needed. And yet…

“Seteth,” Byleth would call, sometimes, tugging on the hem of his coat or brushing their hands together to catch his attention. He’s just the slightest bit shorter than Seteth, and he has to angle his head up to meet Seteth’s eyes, and the first time he had done that when Seteth hadn’t been expecting it, he had very nearly acted up in the monastery cathedral.

It had been a long time since anyone had used his real name—but when Byleth spoke, in that small, low voice of his, turning eyes of bright sea-green up towards him, it made Seteth want to hear how _Cichol_ might sound.

“Father!” Flayn calls, shaking Seteth out of his thoughts—normally he’d remind her to keep their identities secret, but there’s no one to protect her from anymore. She’s clearly just been in the greenhouse, because her dress is smudged with mud and dirt and leaves. “Look! Byleth made me a flower garland!”

“Is that the contraption on top of your head?”

“ _Contraption?_ ” Flayn repeats. She reaches up and touches the… well, the contraption… and frowns. “Are you truly so out of touch with traditions? These are flowers weaved together to form a sort of garland, and you wear them on your head! Byleth says his father taught him how, and his mother taught her father before she passed.”

 _Ah._ Sitri… yes, Seteth supposes he can just vaguely remember seeing those two in the greenhouse together, although he had never imagined Jeralt was any good at caring for flowers. “It looks lovely on you,” Seteth hurries to reassure, when Flayn begins to droop at his silence.

She brightens easily enough. “Thank you, Father! I will ask Byleth to teach me next time, and then I will make you one as well. Then the three of us can all be a trio!”

 _Now_ Seteth remembers what people so often practice during the Garland Moon—weaving wreaths made of flowers to give as gifts to close friends… or potential lovers. He scowls at the thought. Could Byleth be making, as they say, a _pass_ on Flayn? Seteth would gladly go to another war to prevent that from happening. But then again, it isn’t the Garland Moon right now, and Byleth had never shown much romantic interest in Flayn anyway. Though Byleth has never shown much romantic interest in anyone, really…

“Flayn.” Seteth adopts his stern expression. “Do you… like Byleth?”

Flayn stares at him. “Of course I do, Father! He is a very dear friend and comrade. Without him, we would not have won the war. Even before then, he saved me from the Death Knight that time.”

“I mean—yes, of course, but I meant… do you hold any _special interest_ in him?”

Flayn does not stop staring. “He is a bit too old for me. Are you quite alright?”

“I suppose he is,” Seteth agrees, leaning back on his seat. He’d been trying to get some paperwork done before bed, but now he can’t quite stop thinking about wearing the flower wreaths together with Flayn and Byleth. The mental image is strange, but… heartwarming. A passerby might even think they were a…

No, no. Anything can be a dream, but not everything can be a possibility. Seteth waves the thought away as best as he can and picks up his quill once more, intent on focusing on work. “Make sure to clean up, Flayn. I would not want you tracking dirt elsewhere.”

“Yes, Father!” She deposits the flower garland atop his desk, then hurries into the washroom.

For a long while, Seteth watches the petals flutter from the slight breeze coming through the open window.

Surprisingly enough, Byleth stays in his office and works a normal amount without drooling on any papers—Seteth checks up on him a few times, once to deliver the daily cup of coffee, once to take the empty daily cup of coffee, and once because he wants to. Byleth, on the other hand, does the exact same, except with tea.

It’s only in the late evening, when most of the monastery staff have gone to sleep, that Seteth sees him outside the office.

Seteth hadn’t even particularly planned going outside tonight, but the scent of flowers still lingered in his room, even after Flayn had retrieved her wreath from his table, and he hadn’t wanted to stay in there too long lest the fragrance cling to him, too. He had walked out, stretched, and let his legs take him wherever they so decided.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite expected to find himself in front of the greenhouse.

While the gardener does most of the work, students had been assigned gardening duty every now and then to develop a sense of responsibility pampered nobles tended to lack. They were hardly ever any good at it, and they chattered incessantly in the normally-quiet greenhouse all day, but Seteth can’t say he doesn’t miss the liveliness children bring. Flayn has been lonely without more people her age (minus some several hundred years), too…

Something rustles inside the greenhouse, and Seteth sighs his thoughts away. The night breeze is refreshingly cool after being in the office all day, but he should probably rest up and get ready for tomorrow… and… wait, why is the greenhouse even open? It’s nearly midnight.

He steps forward, but he doesn’t need to move any further for his question to be answered, as Byleth steps out right afterwards. “Oh,” he says, blinking up, “Seteth. Good evening.”

“It’s late.” Seteth raises an eyebrow at the single flower Byleth has in hand. “Were you gardening?”

“I wanted to take a break, but I wasn’t sleepy…” Byleth stares down at whatever he’s holding. “Do you know what these are? They’re acacia flowers. Aren’t they pretty?”

Seteth brushes his fingers against the yellow petals. This fragrance… it’s the same as the one in his room. “They are. Did you come here just to plant these?”

“Well, of course. They’re difficult to come by in areas near Garreg Mach.” Byleth reaches up. “May I?”

Seteth has absolutely no idea what he is asking permission for, but he nods anyway—he hardly thinks Byleth is about to harm him now, when he’s armed with nothing but the acacia in hand. Slowly, deliberately, Byleth reaches up, his fingers lingering a second longer than appropriate on Seteth’s cheek before he tucks the flower behind his ear. “There,” Byleth murmurs. “I was thinking about you when I saw these. Yellow looks good with green.”

“D… Does it,” Seteth mutters. He has no doubt the acacia will stay in place, largely because his pointed ears will make it difficult for the wind to blow the flower away, but he reaches up to secure it anyway. His cheek burns where Byleth had touched it. “Thank you, Byleth. I appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing.” Byleth stares up at him a while longer, then looks back straight ahead of him. “Will you walk with me? I want to go to the cathedral.”

“The cathedral is… quite a long walk from here.”

“Yes,” Byleth says, already moving ahead as he casts a glance backwards at Seteth, “exactly.”

There’s a challenge in his gaze, more intense than usual, and though Seteth can’t quite figure out what it is yet, he has no plans on staying in the dark. With a light huff, he follows.

They don’t speak much, but the quiet is comfortable—messenger owls hoot in the treetops, and chatter can still be heard from the city outside the gates. In the moonlight, Byleth’s normally stern features soften to a point that Seteth can only see the curve of his cheek or the arc of his lashes. “It’s strange,” Byleth says, looking up to meet Seteth’s eyes. “I’m not used to the monastery without the students.”

“Yes. You have only known it as it is with other people around, of course.” Seteth clasps his hands behind his back, refusing to acknowledge how Byleth’s arms are swaying by his side and his hands, usually covered in gloves, are bare tonight. “Do you miss having others your age around?” He had just been thinking the same with Flayn.

Byleth shrugs. “At times. But they send letters and visit every so often, so it isn’t terrible. I have always preferred to be alone anyway. Friendship from afar feels nice.” He pauses, his eyes fixed ahead of him but appearing unseeing. “But I want something else.”

The cathedral towers above them, looking almost threatening in the dark. Seteth’s glad he had thought to bring a lantern. “Something else?”

“I like being alone. But sometimes I feel… lonely.” Byleth enters the cathedral, boots echoing on stone ground. Seteth follows after, letting out a little sigh—the holy energy in this place has never failed to soothe him no matter his troubles. “Do you know that feeling, Seteth? To want someone to be alone with.”

Seteth swallows. This is approaching dangerous, uncharted territory he would truly rather not tread upon, but he can’t bring himself to lie either. “I… am familiar with it, yes.”

Byleth leans against the church pews, but he’s facing Seteth with his back to the rest of the cathedral, as if he’d only come here to lean against the church pews, specifically. The darkness of night and the glow of the lantern contrast against him in a meeting of light and shadow, half his face obscured and the other lit up from below. “I have another question,” he says, voice dipping lower in a tone Seteth’s never heard him use before. “Do you know what acacia flowers mean?”

Seteth clears his throat. There’s something about the way Byleth is looking at him right now—his stare feels hungry, desperate, and Seteth doesn’t think his heart can beat any faster than this. “I… do not.”

Byleth tilts his head, smiles, just slightly. “Concealed love.”

The very thin thread holding Seteth’s self-control together threatens to snap. “I see,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as he can when his entire body feels ready to explode outwards. “How very poetic. In any case, is there a reason you wanted to come to the cathedral tonight?”

Byleth frowns. “It’s far away, and isolated. Seteth, must I spell it out for you?”

“You cannot do this,” Seteth immediately says, torn between taking a step back and taking several steps forward at the realization those words reveal. “I… Even if you somehow… I-I have a duty to the Church. I cannot so simply abandon that responsibility for…”

“For who? The Archbishop of the Church?” Byleth dryly asks, which saves Seteth the trouble of continuing that rather idiotic sentence. Byleth’s expression softens further, and he shifts forward just slightly, now looking more worried than anything. “The war is over. We can work together to reform the Church, make sure nobody suffers the way people did before. You can be responsible and let me want you at the same time.”

“ _You,_ ” Seteth repeats, slowly, “want _me._ ”

“I believe I have made that very clear by now.” Byleth sighs again. “But it’s fine. If you truly don’t want to—”

“I most certainly did not say that,” Seteth blurts out, and Byleth’s surprise gives way to what looks like _amusement._ “You… How did you know?” he asks, finally daring to take that first step forward—his legs feel paralyzed by the weight behind the action, but each step closer comes easier and easier until he’s standing right before the other man.

Byleth tips his chin up to meet Seteth’s eyes, his mouth curling up in a small smile… no, Seteth realizes, that’s a _smirk._ When did the Archbishop of Fódlan learn how to smirk? “A while,” he answers. “When I started watching you, I noticed you were doing the same. You aren’t subtle.”

The thread of self-control snaps.

Seteth surges forward, catching Byleth’s lips in a hard, bruising kiss as he pushes Byleth back until he hits the pews again—and Byleth submits to him so readily, so _easily,_ that it only drives Seteth even wilder. He slides his lips across the side of Byleth’s face to growl, “Yes,” right beside his ear, and the way Byleth shivers beneath him is just short of intoxicating. “I was watching you. How you fight. How you move. Did that excite you?”

“S… Seteth,” Byleth gasps, “hold on.” He reaches up, plucks the flower out of Seteth’s hair, and places it on the seat behind them with ridiculous gentleness. Then he smiles. “Okay, you can continue.”

Seteth digs his thumb against Byleth’s collarbone, and Byleth’s little sigh promises to echo in Seteth’s ears for weeks to come. “It… did excite me,” Byleth says, eyes fluttering closed when Seteth presses a biting kiss upon the long column of his throat. “It frustrated me to no end, too, because—I wanted you to _do something,_ ” he mutters, “but you were always so far away, in the distance.”

“I did not realize…” Seteth sighs, straightening to meet Byleth’s eyes. “I always told myself to put my duty to the Church first, and all other things second. But when it comes to you…”

He doesn’t continue—there doesn’t seem to be a need to. He leans in instead, and Byleth meets him halfway in a kiss much softer and gentler than earlier. Byleth’s hands come up to cup Seteth’s cheeks, his touch tender in a way Seteth isn’t familiar with, and he thinks he could lose himself in the feeling of Byleth’s love.

Seteth might have been able to stay like this all night. Byleth cannot. His thigh shifts, then suddenly grinds upwards against Seteth’s crotch—the most embarrassing of embarrassing sounds leaves Seteth’s mouth, and he pulls away with a flustered sputter. With both his robes and his trousers in the way, the sensation is probably less intense than it would be without… well, without clothing… “W-What was…”

Byleth honest-to-goodness _pouts._ How he can do so in this situation is beyond Seteth. “Kissing is nice and all, but I wanted something _else_ tonight. Please?”

“Are you out of your mind? We are in the _cathedral._ A _holy place._ ”

“Yes,” Byleth says, looking close to rolling his eyes, “and I am the Archbishop, and you are a Saint. Do we truly need anyone’s permission to do whatever we like, wherever we like?” He leans back against the pews again, and only now does Seteth see the flush high on his cheeks, reaching down to his neck and beneath his clothes. He isn’t dressed in armor for battle—it would be terribly easy, Seteth realizes, to see if that shade of red reaches all the way down to his chest.

But with only lantern light for visibility, removing clothes might be more trouble than it’s worth. Instead, Seteth retaliates and rubs his own knee against the noticeable bulge beneath Byleth’s pants, and Byleth lets out the sweetest moan, his hips jerking and reflexively rutting against Seteth’s leg. “So you like that?” Seteth breathes. The sight of Byleth, usually so calm, collected, and composed, now beginning to come undone before him… he can’t deny it’s just a little bit addicting.

“No,” Byleth manages, his voice a pitch higher than usual, “I want—I want more.”

It’s a competition to see who can undress the other faster from there—Byleth’s hands on him are distracting, but Seteth is the competitive type, and while Byleth struggles to figure out where to even start with Seteth’s robes, he only needs to undo his trousers and tug down his underwear to free Byleth’s rapidly-hardening cock. Too stunned to do much, Seteth can only stare down at the beads of pre-cum beginning to gather at the tip while Byleth’s hands fist in his robes, a small, low sound escaping his lips.

“It’s… It’s not fair if it’s only me,” Byleth says, tugging at his robes insistently. “Help.”

“You cannot even undress me yourself?” Seteth teases. “You must learn, you know, for…”

 _For the future,_ he means to say, but the words get stuck in his throat at the realization that this is not a one-time thing—it will be happening again, and again, for as long as they want it to. Seteth dearly hopes that means for the rest of their lives, however many years that may be.

But Byleth looks far too impatient—or worked up—or both—to particularly care. Finally he manages to reach beneath Seteth’s robes to get a decent grip at his pants, which he hurriedly unbuttons with unsteady fingers. He pauses at Seteth’s smallclothes, something Seteth himself hardly understands, before suddenly cupping his hard length through the fabric; Seteth grabs onto Byleth’s arm with a groan, the sensation both familiar and foreign at once. He is no stranger to touching himself there, but when it’s Byleth’s hand…

Seteth pulls his underwear down himself, and Byleth similarly wastes no more time in pressing their cocks together—Seteth muffles his groan in Byleth’s shoulder while Byleth has no such qualms, his own gasp echoing in the cathedral. For a short while it’s all they can do—Byleth takes them both in hand and slides their cocks against each other, hot and wet and slick with their mixing pre-cum. The heat, the sensations, everything—it’s almost overwhelming, and Seteth doesn’t even want to think about the possibility of someone walking in on them.

“More,” Byleth suddenly moans, his breaths coming short and shallow, “I w-want more, Seteth. I… Inside me, please…”

Seteth’s grip tightens on Byleth’s hips near-painfully, but judging by Byleth’s pleased gasp, he is almost certainly not complaining. “Wait,” Seteth says, “in _here?_ Right _now?_ ”

“Unless you know of a convenient spell that can take us both back to one of our rooms,” Byleth suggests. He uses his clean hand to dig around in his shirt pocket, and fishes out—oh, of _course_ —a telling glass vial. “Look, I came prepared too. So?”

Several thoughts run through Seteth’s mind at once: Is this moral? Is this ethical? Should they really be doing this in the cathedral, where anyone can just walk in and see them? The last thought, unfortunately, does the very opposite of convincing Seteth this is a bad idea, because now his hand itches to grab the vial of oil out of Byleth’s hold.

“You are certain,” Seteth starts, very slowly, but Byleth is already nodding before Seteth’s even finished. “Well—at least _listen._ ”

“I am,” Byleth says, still nodding. “I’m certain. For a long time, now. I love you, you know.”

He says it so surely, so easily, that Seteth nearly trips and falls backwards on thin air. It’s as if it’s something he’s known for a long time, as if he had never had to question his feelings or emotions before, and Seteth can’t deny that he’s almost jealous. If he had been more sure of his own emotions, hadn’t tried to argue with himself about what he felt for Byleth… would they have been able to do this sooner, even before the war broke out?

“Hey,” Byleth calls, voice soft, “Seteth. Are you there?”

“I love you,” he tells him. “I—Let me stay by your side. To the very ends of this earth.”

Byleth stares back, blinking in surprise, and at first Seteth worries he’s already overstepped before he sees the growing blush across Byleth’s cheeks. “That… sounds like a proposal, or…”

“Does it? It could be one, if you like.”

“How can you say that so calmly—” Byleth tightens his grip on Seteth’s arm, then relaxes with a little sigh. “Well, we can profess all we like later. For now, can we _please_ get a move on?”

“Oh, c-certainly…” Seteth looks back at the oil, still clutched in Byleth’s hand. Somehow the vial looks more dangerous than any weapon he’s ever seen in the hands of this man. He takes it with a tentative hand, and now Byleth looks like he’s practically vibrating in excitement. “How would you like it?” Seteth asks, leaning in to speak directly against Byleth’s lips.

Byleth squirms, and Seteth nearly feels his cock throb against his thigh. “What do you want to do to me?” he asks—no, _challenges,_ and the subtle taunt in his voice goes straight to Seteth’s dick. “Where has all that violence from earlier gone?”

Seteth _knows_ he’s riling him up, but goodness if it doesn’t work. He grabs Byleth by the shoulder, easy enough with their height difference, and turns him around to shove him against the pews, bending him over with a hand pressed to his back. And Byleth is strong enough to resist, to push him away if he so wishes, but the fact that he _doesn’t,_ that he submits so _eagerly,_ only further stokes the heat burning in Seteth—a heat that only flares even hotter when Byleth shudders, arches his back, and spreads his legs as far as his trousers, bunched up around his knees, allow.

One side of Seteth wants to take it slower, wants this to happen not in the cathedral but in one of their rooms instead, where they can take their time on a comfortable bed and explore each other’s bodies to the fullest extent—but Seteth reminds himself that there is a _later,_ that they have a _future,_ and they will have all the time in the world for everything they want. Right now, Seteth is tasked with the very important job of slicking his fingers up in oil and reaching between Byleth’s cheeks.

The soft little sound that leaves Byleth’s lips—and the way he bucks into Seteth’s hand—is absolutely indescribable.

Seteth is no stranger to the motions, but Byleth is so terribly _tight_ that his mind blanks out after slipping one finger inside him. Byleth, being his typical straightforward self, is hardly deterred—he only shifts closer, his breaths coming out in pants. “Please,” he breathes, craning his neck to look back at Seteth. His sea-green eyes, usually so bright, are hazy with lust. “I want you…”

“Imagine if anyone saw you like this,” Seteth mutters, inching his finger deeper inside. Byleth bites back a low noise and presses his forehead against the wood of the pews. “The Archbishop, so… dirty and debauched.” He adds another digit, trying not to get too excited when it only feels tighter around his fingers and Byleth’s entire body shudders in pleasure. How much tighter would he feel around Seteth’s cock?

“Y-Yes,” Byleth stammers, “I—I want people to see you… see you fuck me…”

Seteth’s sure there’s a word for this. Exhibitionism? Since when was Byleth interested in such things? Then again, he’s never seen Byleth act this way for as long as they’ve known each other… until now, obviously. “Terribly impure of you.” He nudges a third finger along Byleth’s rim, trying to see if it can fit, and swallows thickly when Byleth bends further over, practically presenting his ass to Seteth now. Three fingers it is.

Byleth muffles the noises he makes in his arms, but Seteth hears them anyway, soft keens that he would never have imagined Byleth could make. “That’s enough,” he insists, already moving his hips as if trying to fuck himself on Seteth’s hand. “That’s enough, p-please, cock, I w-want your cock, Seteth, I need—” He cuts himself off with a whine when Seteth dutifully pulls his fingers out, leaving Byleth’s hole open for anyone to see.

Seteth traces the rim with one finger while he slicks his cock up with oil, then lines the tip up with Byleth’s entrance—just this has him groaning already, the promise of that hot tightness from earlier so close, and Byleth is just about shaking with excitement. Something gives Seteth the idea to reach under Byleth’s shirt with his hands, sliding his palms against warm, firm muscles until he reaches Byleth’s nipples, as stiff and hard as his cock is. “S-Seteth?” Byleth manages, voice _definitely_ higher than earlier.

“Do you like being touched here, Archbishop?” Seteth murmurs, rubbing his thumbs against the buds. Byleth gasps harshly, leaning into Seteth’s hands when he gets a full-body shudder again, and Seteth pinches his nipples, twists and teases and tweaks until Byleth is completely shaking beneath him, just barely coherent and only capable of begging for more. Seteth’s arms had hiked his shirt up, giving him a large expanse of tanned, sweaty skin to leave biting kisses all over.

Finally, when it looks like Byleth has started desperately grinding his dick against the church pews for release, Seteth slows down and stops touching him entirely—but only for as long as Byleth looks up and blinks at him in confusion, which is when Seteth chooses to push his cock straight into Byleth’s hole.

For a moment his mind blanks out—Byleth is even tighter like this, sinfully so, and Seteth nearly finishes right there before he gets a hold on himself and realizes the loud, embarrassing moan from earlier had come from him. Byleth cries out, voice shaky and dripping with lust, his hands gripping onto the pews so tightly Seteth briefly fears he’ll hurt himself. “S-So—” Byleth whimpers, pressing his sweat-slick forehead against the wood, “so _big—_ ”

Seteth flushes. “It—It is not, really.”

Byleth, as usual, does not care. He grinds back against Seteth’s cock instead, his mouth falling open to let out helpless little gasps and moans, and the sight of his cock being swallowed up by Byleth’s greedy hole is too much to bear—Seteth grabs his hips, hard enough to bruise, and starts thrusting in fast.

He’s not sure how… _big_ he is, exactly, but it must be more than what Byleth might be used to, because it’s not long before Byleth is an incoherent mess, just about sobbing every time Seteth positions himself just right and rams against his prostate. And Seteth isn’t much better—the pleasure is overwhelming, overpowering his senses until nothing but Byleth remains, moving his hips in time to the pace Seteth has built up… or _trying_ to, because he can just barely keep up with the speed, and seeing him trying so _desperately_ is perhaps the most entrancing sight Seteth has ever been graced with.

Seteth shifts his grip down from Byleth’s hip to his ass and squeezes a cheek, drawing a low, heady groan from him, then moves his hand further down to wrap around Byleth’s dripping cock. Seteth hardly has to look at it to know it’s leaking pre-cum everywhere: even with what little light there is to see by, he can see the drops of white on the cathedral floor. (He briefly entertains making Byleth lick it off, but decides there are some things too unsanitary to do in the name of copulation.)

Byleth trembles, making a motion that looks like he’s torn between fucking himself on Seteth’s cock or fucking his hand. “I’m…” he gasps. “I’m c-close… Seteth…”

Hearing his name in Byleth’s voice—in Byleth’s wanton, debased voice—is almost too much. Seteth’s cock throbs painfully in his hole, and by the way Byleth’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, he wonders if he had felt that. “Come for me,” Seteth whispers, leaning down to speak right beside Byleth’s ear. “Let me see your face, my love.”

He flips Byleth to lean against the pews on his back, then grabs onto Byleth’s thighs to balance him and fucks into him hard—Byleth cries out, his arms raised above his head, every muscle tense, perfectly defined, and shining with sweat, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths, cock hard and flush against his stomach—and then he’s gasping Seteth’s name again when he comes, spilling all over himself in a mess that drips down onto the floor to join the rest.

For what feels like a long while, Seteth can only stare, transfixed, at Byleth’s face—his eyes are closed, mouth open in blissed-out reverie, a tear streaking down his face. “Seteth,” he breathes again, and when Seteth’s name falls from his lips like that, it sounds like a prayer fit for the cathedral.

He barely needs more than that to come—he buries himself as deep as he can go inside Byleth, moaning as his orgasm washes over him, pleasure hot and heavy and all-encompassing. “Ah… _ah,_ ” Byleth whimpers, reaching towards his thighs with trembling arms to spread his legs obscenely wider, “yes—yes, c-come on me, Seteth, please—”

Seteth would question that, but he’s too far gone for words just now—he pulls out instead, and thick, hot cum spurts from his cock to splatter all over Byleth’s stomach, only further adding to the mess. Byleth slides down to his knees, the cum on his body trickling down to his thighs and ass, and opens his mouth wide—most of the cum gets on his face, but he takes what little gets on his tongue with enough vigor to match a dehydrated man in the desert.

Standing above him, Seteth can only stare down at Byleth—on his knees before him, face and tongue wet with cum, shirt hitched up to expose pink, pert nipples, and nearly the entire lower half of his body a complete mess. Cum dribbles out of his hole and down the insides of his thighs.

For the Archbishop of Fódlan, Seteth numbly thinks, as Byleth licks stray drops of cum off his softening cock, he can certainly look nothing like it.

“That…” Byleth rests his head against Seteth’s thigh, one hand holding on to his knee for balance. “That was… something…”

“Byleth?” Seteth hurriedly buttons up and crouches down before Byleth can fall face-first onto the floor. The _stained_ floor. Goodness knows how either of them are going to explain this to the monastery staff tomorrow. “Byleth, don’t fall asleep now. Come—”

“Already did,” he mumbles.

“…ahem. Let me bring you to your room first. Can you walk?” Seteth winces—had he perhaps used _too_ much force earlier?

Byleth blinks blearily up at him, then glances at his behind. “No. Carry me.”

“Now I am almost certain you are capable of walking. The Goddess gave you two working legs, did she not?”

“Sothis gave me a lot of things.” Byleth leans up and catches Seteth in a kiss—this one is soft and gentle, barely more than a meeting of their lips but one that has Seteth melting into it anyway. “Especially you. So… carry me, please?”

Seteth sighs, but he supposes he can hardly say no to that.

**Author's Note:**

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